


tall flat white

by thirty2flavors



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 02:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10584099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/pseuds/thirty2flavors
Summary: Fiona was, without a doubt, the worst customer Rhys had ever known.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinyopals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyopals/gifts).



> showing up 2 ur fandom eighteen months late with a coffee shop au of all things. entirely the result of a joke conversation with @shinyopals about how to transport a character like handsome jack into something as mundane as a coffee shop and now here we are, 2k words later.

Fiona was, without a doubt, the worst customer Rhys had ever known.

“Hey,” she announced, a bit too familiar for someone who was, inevitably, about to do something that would jeopardize his job. 

He sighed. 

“Can I get a….” She leaned heavily across the counter to scan the menu, legs stretched out straight behind her, balanced on the tips of her boots. “Grande vanilla bean frappucino with heavy cream, no ice, no water, no whip, matcha powder, extra caramel drizzle, extra chocolate chips with two shots espresso in a venti cup?”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “Come on. You don’t actually want that.”

“Sure I do,” said Fiona, with a voice that did nothing to convince him of her sincerity. She slapped a handful of change onto the counter. “Chop chop!” 

He scooped the change into his palm. “Hey, this is twenty cents short—” 

But she’d already flitted around to wait for her drink at the other side of the counter, so he sighed and dug the missing dimes out of his own pocket instead. Grabbing a cup from the stack, he Sharpied her absurd order on the side along with her name, intentionally misspelled with a _Ph_ in the precise way he knew she hated. 

Fiona rifled through the stack of CDs on display, seemingly oblivious to the way her methods left them askew and in need of rearranging. 

“Oh yeah,” she called casually, “I left my umbrella here the other day.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes I did,” she insisted, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes belying the innocence in her voice. “Did anyone turn it in? It was black, hooked handle, button to open it—”

“You’re describing the world’s most generic umbrella. I’ve seen that stupid ‘lifehack’—”

“My umbrella’s not creative enough for you? Don’t insult my umbrella.” 

The sound of the blender drowned out his sigh. “When did you say you left it here?”

“Saturday.” At least she’d done that much research. “The big rain storm. Obviously.”

“You weren’t in on Saturday.”

“How would you know?”

“I was working.”

Fiona snorted. “What, all day?”

The truthful answer to that was _yes, actually_ : an excruciating open-to-close shift, for which he had only been paid approximately half. The rest was an off-the-books and probably-illegal favour for the manager that Rhys was _really_ hoping paid off in two months when the next rung on the corporate ladder finally had an opening.

But telling Fiona that didn’t feel like much of a win, so instead he said, “No one turned in any umbrellas, Fiona, better luck next rainstorm,” and plunked her drink on the counter in front of her.

Fiona wrinkled her nose in a pout, which turned to a scowl as she picked up her cup and saw the spelling of her name. Rhys smirked and used a rag to wipe the ring of condensation off the counter, looking to the door just in time to see it open.

Fiona was easily the worst customer Rhys had ever known, but without a doubt the best part of Fiona the customer was that her appearances sometimes guest-starred her younger sister, Sasha.

This, it seemed, was one such lucky visit.

Sasha was beautiful, cool, and brimming with resentment for anyone or anything that might accurately be deemed ‘The Man’, which may or may not include Rhys depending on her mood but absolutely always included his place of employment. She walked through the door, slipped the hood off her head, hooked her headphones around her neck and gravitated across the shop to her sister. 

“Hey, Fi,” she said, and then, catching sight of him, added a nod of acknowledgment. “Rhys.”

“Hey,” he croaked. “Hi.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed suspiciously in his direction. 

He cleared his throat. “Uh, hey, so, Sasha, can I get you something?” 

She shook her head, the bundle of dreads tied behind her head wobbling as she did so. “I’m good.” She held up a paper coffee cup of her own, emblazoned with the logo of the rival indie cafe down the street. “Fair trade,” she added, a little more pointedly than was probably necessary.

“We’re fair trade,” he said, reflexively and a little bit pathetically, but Sasha only raised an eyebrow.

“Mmm, I know you say that,” she said, almost on the border of pitying before she nudged Fiona with her elbow. “So, I may have committed some light vandalism.”

Fiona’s eyes lit up as much as Rhys’ heart sank.

“Tell me everything,” said Fiona.

“Please tell me it wasn’t here,” said Rhys.

Sasha’s grin turned wicked, the family resemblance between her and Fiona suddenly striking. 

“In the parking lot. I _may_ have noticed a certain expensive car with a certain bumper sticker containing a certain slogan for a certain politician, and my keys and I _may_ have tried to redecorate. A little.”

Fiona laughed and gave Sasha an exuberant high-five; Rhys groaned and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“That’s my manager’s car,” he moaned.

Fiona laughed harder at that. “Of course it is.” 

Unbothered, Sasha took a sip of her competitor-brand coffee. “Your manager seems like a dick.”

Rhys opened his mouth, considered that there was no contribution he could make to this discussion that wouldn’t jeopardize either his job or Sasha’s esteem, and shut it again. 

“Oh, he is a dick,” agreed Fiona. “Like, I bet he’s killed a man.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “ _What_?”

“Have you seen his face? That’s the face of a man who’s watched the life leave someone’s eyes.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“What happened to the guy who used to own this place, eh? Didn’t he disappear?” She wiggled her fingers mysteriously. “I’m just sayin’.” She took a slurp of her frappucino and reached across the counter, slapping Rhys’ arm with enthusiasm. “Oh, oh, tell her what he said about the pipelines.”

It was difficult to ignore Sasha’s expectant gaze.

“I… need to get back to work,” Rhys said lamely.

“Yeah, hey, speaking of,” said Fiona, waving her half-finished drink, “this isn’t lactose free, is it?”

“You didn’t order lactose free.”

“Sure I did.” 

“No, you didn’t! And you barely even paid for the first—”

“The customer is always right, Rhys,” she sing-songed. “That’s somewhere in your corporate handbook or personal bible or whatever, right?” She pulled back her half-empty drink as he reached for it. “I’ll keep this one, though. You know.” She sucked noisily on the straw. “Wouldn’t wanna waste it.”

Rhys glared at her, but grabbed an empty cup and started over anyway. “You’re going to get me fired.”

“I’d be doing you a favour,” said Fiona. She pulled the container of sugar packets towards her, arranging several into a tiny house of cards he’d have to rearrange later. “You still putting in hours for free?”

But Sasha was paying attention now, staring at him critically. “They’ve got you working for free? Why would you do that?”

“That’s not… strictly speaking, that’s not, exactly, what—”

“Because he’s a spineless kiss-ass,” Fiona explained, knocking over her sugar tower with one finger. 

Sasha put a hand on her hip. “That’s stupid. You don’t owe them anything.”

Having Sasha’s righteous fury aimed in his defense was a little rewarding, if also a little embarrassing. 

Fiona, of course, was there to ruin it. 

“Oh, but Sash, it’s all about playing the game!” She placed a theatrical hand over her chest. “If he works hard enough and long enough for his douchebag boss maybe one day, seven years from now, he might finally get to be assistant to the regional manager of a soulless franchised multinational coffee chain.” She screwed her face up like she was crying and wiped away an imaginary tear. “Every little boy’s dream.” 

Rhys set her new drink down on the counter with enough force that some spilled out the lid. “Very funny.”

“That’s... sad,” said Sasha, looking at him with an expression closer to pity than he would have liked. “You can do better than this place. Aren’t you a techie or something?”

Rhys was not entirely sure whether or not he ought to be flattered, let alone whether or not he was. 

“Hey now, easy, Sash, don’t make the delusions of grandeur any worse.” Fiona grabbed at her second drink happily, tossing the now-empty original into the garbage. 

Before he could respond to the insult, or even demand she clean up the wreckage of sugar packets she’d left behind, Fiona reached into her pocket and began waving a folded piece of paper between two fingers. 

“By the way,” she announced, dropping her voice to a more conspiratory volume. “I may have a copy of next week’s AI design test.”

“What? You’re not even in that class.”

Fiona shrugged elusively. “I know people.” She dangled the paper in front of his face as he tidied the sugar. “You want it?” 

He did. AI Design was his hardest class, and his grades were slipping. But he looked at the paper, then looked at Sasha, and then said, “No.”

“Liar.”

“No, no, I don’t, I’m—reformed,” he insisted, unable to stop another furtive glance in Sasha’s direction.

Sasha, engrossed in tapping away on her phone, her back against the counter, didn’t notice. 

Fiona did. Her eyes went wide with recognition, Rhys felt the colour drain from his face, and Fiona’s eyebrows knit together in a disgusted glare.

Oblivious, Sasha broke the tension by standing up straight and tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans. “Oh, hey, Fi, gotta run, August’s got some new gear to show me.” She slid the headphones looped around her neck back over her ears and raised a hand to wave casually at Rhys. “Good luck with your murder boss.”

Rhys managed a feeble and silent wave of his own. 

Fiona cleared her throat. The angry expression of a second ago had been replaced by a look of false innocence as she sucked on the straw of her drink and waved the paper back and forth between two fingers. He reached for the paper, but Fiona snatched it away, holding out an empty palm instead. 

With a defeated groan, Rhys moved to the counter, stuffed an assortment of pastries into a bag, and then thrust the bag into Fiona’s open palm.

“You’re going to get me fired _and_ you’re going to get me expelled,” he complained, but the malice was wearing thin.

Ill-gotten food and drink in one hand, Fiona flashed a self-satisfied smile, winked, and tucked the paper into his apron pocket. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.”


End file.
